"Oh yes, oh yes—to be sure," said Grace; "why should I be angry?"
"Because I can't help it—I give you my honour. I have tried very hard, but I cannot help it."
"Then who could be angry with you, unless it was something very wicked?"
"It is not very wicked, it is very good—too good for me, a great deal, I am afraid."
"There cannot be many things too good for you; you are simple, and brave, and gentle."
"But this is too good for me, ever so much, because it is your own dear self."
Grace was afraid that this was coming; and now she lifted her soft blue eyes and looked at him quite tenderly, and yet so directly and clearly that he knew in a moment what she had for him—pity, and trust, and liking; but of heart's love not one atom.
"I know what you mean," he whispered sadly, with his bright young face cast down. "I cannot think what can have made me such a fool. Only please to tell me one thing. Has there been any chap in front of me?"
"How can I tell what you mean?" asked Grace; but her colour showed that she could guess.
"I must not ask who it is, of course. Only say it's not the swell that drives the four bay horses."